Count to Four
by Bethofbells
Summary: Some unseen moments and realizations in Indian BBW


**A/N: I wanted too write something in those unseen moments of Indian BBW. I'm trying a different style of writing here, and I'm not sure about it. Please feel free to leave a review. I really enjoy hearing what you all have to say. BTW, my computer went kaput on me last night, and I've been writing and stuff on my tablet, which is less than ideal, but it is what it is. (man it's an ordeal to posts fics from iawriter though :O).**

Somewhere down the hall, the creaky caster of a wheelchair being pushed too fast squeaks out an incessant sound. Danny sighs as he watches Peter shrug and disappear through the door. She might even be a little bit in love with the practice. What? Peter is an idiot, and yet, Danny desperately wants the words to ring true. A certain amount of clarity in a decidedly unclear situation.

He's been so wrapped up in his own insecurities, too quick to attribute Mindy's urge to take things slow to something lacking in himself. He hadn't bothered to entertain the possibility that she might have her own self doubt to contend with.

Alone in his hospital room, he wonders about this. It doesn't make sense, and in his weakened state, he is still incredulous. Mindy is the one who always dives into things head first. She always goes after the things she wants with enthusiastic fervor. She always says I love you too soon, wants to live with someone she just met. She isn't bashful with her affections. It doesn't matter what Peter says, if Mindy were a little bit in love with the practice, well, she would have said something, done something to show the practice how she feels.

Danny cannot help but compare himself to the different men she's dated before. He's seen the whirlwind romances she gets wrapped up in, he wants to believe she's just as excited now, but it's hard when it feels like she's pushing him away.

It's not just sex, not that sex is "just" anything, but it isn't just that. It's hard for someone so used to being closed off to show affection. Letting her know how much she excites him, how much he wants to be close too her, he knows he can do that, and do it well. But she wants to take things slow.

She wants dates, and talking and feelings. His throat constricts, and he feels sweat begin on his palms as he bunches the sheets up in his hands. What if he says the wrong thing, what if she gives up. He's all in, and in spite of Peter's words, he has a hard time believing she's in this as deep as he is.

It's quiet now, the gentle hum of electronic devices the only sound stimulating Danny's ears. He glances around the empty room, suddenly realizing that he doesn't have very many people in his life that he cares about, and he can't just let one of them slip away.

He has to remind himself that she was with Cliff for three months. It has to mean something that she's willing to start fresh with him, rather than cling to the months already invested there. She had been eager to reunite with Cliff, until that one moment. Until he uttered, so raspily, his voice cracking a little, that extra little number. That extra lifeline so full of hope. He hadn't meant to do it, he'd really meant to stop at three. But, his heart had been breaking, thousands of worst case scenarios running through his head, planning to get off the plane and immediately purchase another ticket out of New York. He would have gone anywhere just to get away, just to not have to see her happily reunited with Cliff. But she smiled, the whole thing lighting up her face, whatever uncertainty she'd carried, suddenly eradicated by that hopeful little utterance.

Maybe that's it. This thing that's holding her back now, maybe it's the same thing that held her back when he simply said 'three'. Maybe she needs some sort of 'four' from him now, some extra little assurance that he really wants this, wants her. He cringes when a horrible thought passes through his mind. What if she misread his awful behavior earlier? What if she thought he didn't want to take it slow because he didn't really want all of her, just that one thing he'd been so singlemindedly harping on?

Shit. He'd even told her that not having sex meant they weren't dating. What the hell is he doing? He feels like maybe he's trying to mess this up before it really gets started. He feels like maybe this is what he's always been doing, only pursuing her really when there were seemingly insurmountable obstacles. He wrote her letters when she was with Casey, showing her for the first time a different side of himself. It had been safe. There was even a certain amount of safety in kissing her hungrily in the back of the plane, knowing all along that if she did reject him, that he could just chalk it up to her feelings for Cliff.

But, damn it, this is different. This is all on him. He can make it or break it. She's clearly willing, even if she wants to take it slow. She hadn't been fazed by his temporary backpedaling when the breakup with Cliff got messy. She just brushed it aside, telling him not to talk like that, touching his face yet again, as though she would never tire of doing just that.

Danny looks down at his hands, suddenly realizing they're no longer clutching at the sheets beside him, but that they're lying palm down, one index finger tapping impatiently. He makes a decision, quickly unclipping the heart rate monitor from his finger, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He's going to stride into her room, admit that he was wrong, and tell her he just wanted to be with her.

He stops after one step, the rapid motion making him dizzy, his legs still weak from days spent lying prone in a hospital bed. So maybe "stride" is too strong a word. He glances at the wheelchair beside his bed. Maybe he'll roll into her room.

It takes him longer than he expected to make it down to Mindy's room. For some reason she's on a different floor, and it's difficult for him to maneuver into the elevator, so many people crowd him out. Finally, after what seems like ages, there he is, within view of her door, hands slipping sweatily against the wheels of the chair.

The fear is back, a little. There's nothing he can do about it. It'll probably never completely abate. That's the nature of these things though. He inches closer, briefly closing his eyes, taking a deep breath. He starts to count in his head, telling himself, "go on three." Three comes and goes, and he's still frozen in place, his face falling as he calls himself a coward.

He's about to turn around, when is strikes him. You don't always have to go on three. Sometimes things work out better with a good even number. He swallows deeply, four echoing in his head as a smile spreads across his face. When he pushes the door open, he sees her, and he knows, going on four is fine, as long as you go.

He still wants her, that hasn't changed, and he doesn't think it ever will, but when she's tucked up beside him, the most girlish look he's ever seen on her face, he feels like maybe he can understand the merits of going slow, of doing things seemingly out of character.

Here he is, reading some silly romance novel, using the worst British accents anybody has ever heard, looking the most ridiculous he's ever looked, and he's happy. More than that, when he sees how happy she is, electricity shoots through him, the jolt surprising him with its intensity. It's hard for him to process that he's the cause of the smile plastered across her face, or that his silly voices are eliciting the quiet little giggles at his shoulder. He feels younger, happier, than he has in ages, briefly dropping the armor he's carried around for so long.

Strangely enough, divested of his defense mechanisms, he doesn't feel naked or weak. An unexpected strength builds in him. He's confident in his ability to make her happy, if only he makes a real effort. Right now, that's enough to allay the fears that constantly swirl inside of him, the fears that make him gruff and sometimes mean.

She sighs against him, unable to fight off the exhaustion that pulled at her through the first couple chapters. He feels the weight of her head against his shoulder as he closes the book, resting it against his lap. Finding her hand, he threads his fingers through hers, closing his own eyes. Counting her breaths at his ear as he falls asleep. One… two… three… four….


End file.
